


Demon's View

by KevlarMasquerade (nightsstarr)



Series: 30 Days of Demonfire [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 30 days of demonfire, F/M, Requests, alternate POV, fanfic of a fanfic, rewritten chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightsstarr/pseuds/KevlarMasquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people have been asking for other points of view of chapters of a fic that I wrote and this is where I'll keep them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demon's Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Kiss" prompt from Damian's point of view (requested by brusselsproutofdoom on tumblr)
> 
> Word Count: 2,873

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I begin this fanfic of my fanfic, I hope you've realized that I've been writing Damian as having already developed a bit of a crush on Mar'i. He liked her first and at the time that she kissed him, he liked her more.

I enjoy patrolling with Grayson.

Allow me to amend that for the purposes of clarity; I enjoy patrolling with Nightwing. While I would not say that I dislike patrolling with Nightstar, enjoy is certainly not the right word.

Allow me to amend my initial statement a final time; I used to enjoy patrolling with Grayson.

Invariably, he asks me how his daughter is doing. And invariably, I assure him that she is fine. Using that exact phrase.

The situation, as I understand it, is that Nightwing wants to check on his daughter often, however, because Grayson is often times over emotional, rash, and stubborn, she becomes offended at his insistence and this is what Nightwing is attempting to avoid by inquiring about her health or mood or the quality of the day to me, even if more often than not I have no real knowledge of the state of any of these things.

I doubt he hardly realizes he does this. The amount of time it takes for him to say 'How is she?' and for me to say 'Fine' is hardly worth fretting over.

Lately, however, this two-sentence exchange has been wearing on my nerves. The nature of my relationship with Grayson has been changing. I have come to reluctant terms with the fact that I may be harboring a small crush on the idiotic woman.

There is nothing wrong with that, not really. It's healthy. It's normal. However, I wish that Grayson–Nightwing, proper Grayson–did not make me feel so guilty about it.

This is a difficult situation. Grayson has been a surrogate father figure for me since I first came to Gotham. And a brother, I suppose, but moreover a very close friend. By extension, Mar'i should feel like a sister or relative, or at the very least the daughter of a friend. But she does not.

Mrs. Grayson was never fond of Gotham, or of the network of vigilantes we created. And so, for most of my childhood, I did not associate Nightstar with Nightwing. Until late in her high school years, Grayson lived in Bludhaven, even after Mrs. Grayson left and it would have been much simpler to move to Gotham. Dick did not want to uproot her life, so he commuted to Gotham from Bludhaven for years. I grew up seeing her approximately as often as I saw Harper, and she certainly did not feel like a sister.

"Look alive, Robin," Nightwing calls through the rain over his shoulder, and I realize that I have been letting my thoughts distract me. He's pointing to one of the alleys several stories below us. "You okay?"

"Completely fine, yes." I palm the grappling hook gun from a pocket in my belt and I jump off the ledge of the building we are standing on.

Using the jumpline to slow and control my descent, I kick one of the men in the back as I land.

There's a ring of men, all dressed in black, and there's a woman being held by two of them. That tells me enough. They're attacking now. Being wary of guns, I finish off my side quickly. The woman begins screaming, and Nightwing and I have our hands full.

All that I see is a flash of the light from the street reflecting off metal in the corner of my eye. A man we'd punched to the ground is leaning against the alley wall, aiming for Grayson, who is tending to the woman with his back to the gunman.

I can't do anything helpful. I should be taking the bullet–Grayson is notorious for not wearing enough Kevlar with his suit. I simply don't have the time for anything else.

Normally I would take the bullet. But I freeze. I never freeze. I never find myself so unable to make a decision or lack the dedication it takes to make a move.

I have been shot before, and worse. I'm not afraid. But there's a flash of something in the unfamiliar panic that hits my chest so hard that I can't breathe–a flash of green and pink. It's distracting. It's dangerous.

The gun is not silenced. The sound is very loud, but it's not as loud as the woman's screams. With all that noise, the police will be here soon. It's protocol for them to take us to Mercy West if they find an injured vigilante, but there is no time for that.

I pull the gunman into a sitting position and punch the underside of his jaw. I'm very angry. I don't have time to be angry, however.

Grayson is clutching his arm. His neck and back are undamaged. I shred a piece of my cape and tie a largely ineffective tourniquet around his arm.

Crystal Brown is working, and when I haul Nighting, fainted from blood loss, into her wing of the hospital, she gets him a stretcher and a swarm of people with masks over their faces and nets over their hair surround him.

"He'll be okay," she tells me. She moves to put her hand on my shoulder, but I am dripping wet from the rain outside so she lets her arm drop to her side. "If you got him here much later, he wouldn't be. But you did good."

No. No, I did not. I did horribly. I let down my best friend because I was afraid.

And what was I afraid of? Never seeing his daughter again. This has gone too far too quickly and I don't know what to do about it. But I'll get my wish, at any rate.

Now I have the unpleasant responsibility of finding Grayson and telling her that her father was shot because of me.

The pleasant thing about the windows on our apartment building is that they have ledges on them. It's a common design element for older buildings. After a moment of calculation, I find Grayson's and I land on it, rain pouring in rivulets down the front of my hood so that I can only see through a veil of water.

I tap on it, insistent but not panicked. I do not want to frighten her. She wakes easily and her room is illuminated by the pink glow that emanates from her hand. The duvet is thrown nearly across the room and she rushes over to the window. The screen pops out and she slides the window open and I land squarely on my feet. Rain drips from my uniform to the hardwood floors and I wonder if I should retrieve a towel to mop it up.

"What's the matter?" she asks, and she sounds so frightened.

I clench my jaw shut before I tell her, "It's your father. If you have an extra suit—"

She's already turning from me and she's rummaging through her dresser. I imagine she doesn't use the suit she has stored here very often—we're only supposed to use equipment stored in our dwellings in emergencies. Clothing litters the floor and I avert my eyes because I don't think she notices the articles of clothing she's dumped on the floor.

"Turn around," she commands, and her voice is short and clipped. I give an inaudible sigh. I wasn't looking, anyway. It's very inappropriate, but heat rushes to my face as I realize that she's undressing behind me and I tug my hood over my eyes as far as it will go.

I hear her zip up her costume and the mattress depresses and I assume that it is safe to turn around. She is sitting on her bed now, reaching under it and pulling out pairs of shoes before sliding her feet into them.

"Wrong shoes," I mutter as she pulls on a rain boot instead of the ones that go with her uniform.

"I don't care," she says and she stands up, but I move in front of the window to block her. We are vigilantes. It is difficult but we cannot do these kinds of things. I've already explained this to her. We must be calm. I realize that it must be difficult for her, as her powers are driven by emotions and she seems even more impulsive than Brown most days. But if she wants to wear the uniform she's got to play by the rules.

She tries to go through me toward the window, still wearing mismatched boots, and I push her with as much strength as I can without actually hurting her back onto her mattress. I put my hands by her elbows and I lean down, effectively pinning her beneath me, though I know that she could brush me away quite easily if she wished. Her superior strength is precisely why I have to be so commanding.

"Listen to me," I growl, putting as much authority behind my voice as I can. "You need to calm down."

"Stop it, Damian," she snarls, and she pushes me with such force that not only am I pushed completely away from her, but my back hits the wall painfully. She lunges for the window again but I grab her by the wrists and I push her up against the wall.

Our bodies are touching with my attempt to keep her still long enough to break through to her but I cannot think about that now. "Control yourself." If she does not calm down, I will have to restrain her. She cannot go to the hospital like this.

She doesn't struggle against me, even though she could toss me to the side with a flick of her wrist if she chose. When she looks up at me, her eyes are shining with tears and I vehemently wish she chose to fight me instead.

I did not mean to make her cry. I do not know what to do when people cry. Most people do not around me. It seems a very intimate gesture, and I am reminded again of our proximity. I swallow back what is best described as anxiety and I brush a piece of hair behind her ear, hoping that that sort of contact would comfort her.

"At least put on the correct pair of boots," I say softly. I step back, allowing her a clear path to her bed, and I cross my arms. My gloves absorb most of the heat from whatever I touch, but my fingers are hot. I could feel the heat from Mar'i's hair even through my glove, and that makes me want to touch it again. Half of it is curiosity, I suppose, but the other half is not nearly as innocent in nature.

"It is not fatal," I say, balling my fingers into a fist to get rid of the lingering warmth. "His arm will be in a sling. Nightwing will be out of commission."

"Do you think—" she begins, her voice watery. "Do you think if I were there—?"

She is sitting on the edge of her bed, perfectly framed by a rectangle of light cast by a streetlight through her window. Her back is hunched and her head is turned to the floor. She should not blame herself, especially when this is my fault.

I move in front of her but she doesn't look up, so I reach out and I cup her cheek. Heat floods through my fingers again and I cannot tell if all of it is from the physical contact or if it is from something else entirely. "You cannot think of it that way," I tell her when she finally looks at me.

She nods softly and I remove my hand from her face, feeling very foolish for having done that. "Okay. Let's go."

Mar'i sets off a smoke detector in the waiting room and we are asked to wait outside in the rain. It is unfair, but not unreasonable, I suppose. I sit on a bench in the lee of the wall, with a ledge above me that blocks out the rain and wind, but Mar'i paces. Thick, living fire dances through the air in her wake, lazily consuming itself before she returns to that spot. It is quite mesmerizing to watch.

To clarify, the fire is mesmerizing. Not Grayson.

When we are let in again, Grayson is waiting for us in a bed. Mar'i speaks with him for a long time, and I make sure that Dr. Brown knows that he is to be released before this evening, as Officer Grayson is to report for duty and we cannot have him missing work the same say Nightwing was shot. She promises me she will take care of it.

I stay out of the way, mainly, as father and daughter talk, relieved to see each other. Grayson invites me to join in the conversation, but I do not wish to intrude. It is my fault that he is here, anyway, and I do not wish to burden them with my presence.

The sun begins to rise, and Gotham's vigilantes must make their exit. We are forced to go to the Firewall, as there is no feasible way we can get to our apartment building dressed as we are, and with Grayson lacking her hologram pendant. Unfortunately, Grayson has forgotten to update her civilian wardrobe here, and she has only summer clothing. This would not be a problem, except that without her pendant, her skin and eyes are quite noticeable. I give her my sweatshirt so she can turn the hood up. She frets over my health, which is unnecessary and undeserved; as I have mentioned, it is my fault that any of this happened.

When we finally reach our apartments after a long walk in the cold and the rain, she unzips the sweatshirt I gave her and she says, "Um… thanks."

"Are you… all right?" I ask.

"Yeah. Are you?" she returns, and it only makes my conscience weight heavier.

I sigh tiredly and I run my fingers through my hair—an anxious habit I picked up from by father—and I lean back on my door, opening it with enough room for her to pass through.

"It's my fault your father got shot," I admit, and I cannot look at her. Any semblance of trust built between us will be shattered. "I saw the gun but I did not have time to disarm the gunman. I could have stepped in the bullet's path but… I didn't." There is no need to go into those details. "I'm sorry," I tell her sincerely, raising my head to meet her gaze.

"Wha—Damian, that's nothing to apologize for."

"It would have been entirely less stressful if it had been me," I tell her, and she cannot deny that it would be true. Even as I think that, however, I want her to deny the truth of that statement.

"For who?" she demands, and she looks confused.

Annoyance at her lack of understanding and something else sweeps through me and I cannot speak for a moment. My gaze drops to the floor again, and I mutter, "For you."

"I don't want you to get shot," she says, and even though that is an entirely platonic thing to say, it makes me dizzy with a fierce rush of relief and joy. Her sneakers come into my line of vision and she wraps her fingers around my wrist.

I jerk my head up to look at her, but she's looking down at my hands. "X'hal, you're freezing," she murmurs, and with her other hand she touches my cheek.

The dizzy feeling has gotten much worse and I cannot think. Her hands are warm and I feel so much colder where she is not touching me.

"Grayson," I say, and she lifts her eyes to look at me. "Mar'i," I say softly, and the name feels hot in my mouth, but pleasant and sweet, like cocoa. I'm not thinking. I pull her closer, and I reach for her hand.

I am not sure who kisses whom, but we are kissing, and I could get lost in all the feelings. I have never been the type of person who analyzes these sorts of things. I am much too busy for that. But it is as though I have been seeing in black and white and Mar'i has shown me colors.

This is ridiculous. I cannot even bring myself to touch her, other than my fingers entwined with hers, because I fear I will be swept away in the torrent of emotion.

This is a bad idea. This is unhealthy.

I force myself to lean my head on the door behind us, gently breaking the kiss. "We shouldn't be doing this," I say quietly, and I almost wince at how full of regret my voice is.

"No," she agrees.

I tighten my fingers around hers, afraid she misunderstood. "Not now. Not while your father—"

"I know," she says calmly. "Damian, I have to tell you something."

I do not let go of her fingers. I imagine what it would be like, to have experienced that intense flood of emotion once in my entire life and never do it again, and I regret breaking that kiss.

"I'm going to Tamaran," she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowww this got way longer than I meant for it to get.


	2. Demon's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon's Breath 
> 
> Prompt: "Cold/Fear" prompts from Damian's point of view (requested by olivv6) 
> 
> Word Count: 1,630

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point I will probably rearrange these chapters so they are in chronological order but not today.

It's madness. The bridge has a gaping hole in the middle of it and automobiles are falling through it. People are shouting. I'm very tempted to shoot a grapple at cars as they fall, but that would be a waste. Some people have crashed on the bridge and their lives are as important as the people in the water. Besides, both Graysons, Batgirl, my father, and my sister are preparing to help them. I can do more here.

But then I hear Grayson shout, "Mar'i! Wait!"

Drake runs to the side of the bridge to look down at the water but I do not. I already know what happened, and Brown knows it, too. I glance over my shoulder to see bright flame curling through the air. The flame from Grayson's hair is not like ordinary flame. It is somehow stronger and more alive, not unlike Tamaraneans themselves, I suppose. It continues to lick through the air after she has gone, only for a few seconds. It is rather interesting, generally, although right now I don't have time to think about such trivialities.

No one on the bridge is seriously hurt. Frightened and bruised, and possibly one person with a broken leg, but Brown assures them that they will be all right.

Our suits have many layers. It is not immodest to shed the outer layers and pull on wetsuits, stored as tightly as possible in our belts. The bridge is quite high, but it is safe to jump into the water from this height, as Grayson has already so rashly demonstrated. There's a form to jumping in from this height, however, which I am sure she neglected to use. The arms are folded over the chest, the legs locked tight, and the feet hit the water first. We must be careful of where we jump with all the debris in the water.

The water is cold, but I am covered, except for my face. The temperature does not bother me. With my father, Batgirl, and both Graysons already having been underwater for nearly a minute, most people are out by now. I assist those who cannot get out the windows on their own, and they are picked up by rescue crews on the surface. There are nearly more people down here than there were automobiles on the bridge. People are swarming the area.

"Don't tire yourself out, Nightstar," Proxy's voice warns over our joint comm.

There's no response, as Grayson is probably far beneath the surface of the Gotham River. At this point, there is not much use in staying under. There are more men and women specially equipped for this sort of situation entering the river now. We were never meant to replace the rescue squad. We are only here to aid them.

I swim to the surface, eager to meet up with my father before he disappears in search of any clues the bombing might have left. As I swim to the bank, a pink ray of light shoots out from the surface of the water. It's a starbolt. I pull a rebreather from my belt and bite down on it, keeping one hand over it as I swim down. People are disoriented and they are following the flare of light. Quick thinking on Nightstar's part.

Pulling people through water is difficult. I can only pull two people up with me, and I make three trips before the people stop coming up. I swim to the bank, beginning to feel tired myself. I have been trained for this, of course. Admittedly, however, this is not my strong suit. There is not much water in the desert. I learned to swim before joining the Bat-family in Gotham, but I was never as strong a swimmer as, say, Drake. I suppose, statistically, he would need to be better than me at something.

Nightstar emerges from the water, burdened with two adults and a child. She places them on the bank and she turns to dive into the water yet again, but her father catches her before she can leave. I lose interest in their conversation and I retrieve my cape from where I had thrown it, intending to dry my hair off with it.

Nightstar appears once more, a child in her arms, looking rather distraught. This captures my attention, and I begin weaving through the crowd to see what the problem is. She leaves again before I can reach them, and Grayson is crouching over a child.

"Nightwing?" I call, startled. I turn to find a member of one of the rescue teams to relieve Grayson from his task, but he catches me before I go.

"I'm fine," he says without stopping in the compressions he's started performing on the child. "Go after Nightstar."

It is not a request. It is an order. The water is not calm and I am tired. I do not appreciate having to fetch Grayson out of the water for her father. None of this is aided by the fact that it is impossible to see. I take a light from my belt, designed to work underwater, although to what depth I am not sure, and I dive in.

I find her from the air bubbles leaving her mouth, which is not good. She's attempting to pull a man from a car completely filled with water. He does not appear alert. I do not bother checking his pulse. As quickly as possible, I resurface. She is limp and unresponsive. If she drowns in my care, Grayson will not forgive me.

I toss her unceremoniously on the bank and kneel next to her, leaning forward to listen for breathing. I tear a glove off with my teeth and feel for a pulse. I swear under my breath and begin the procedure.

Luckily, it does not take long for her to recover, and I do not know whether I should attribute that to the speed with which I assisted her or her Tamaranean physiology.

She coughs up water, and I assist her by turning her on her side to lessen the possibility of choking. It occurs to me that the unnatural heat that generally emanates from her skin is absent, and I pick up the cape I collected earlier and I throw it over her. She coughs for several minutes, but when she groans and her coughing slows, I say, "Do not cough on the cape."

Stubbornly, she swats at my hand and I release her. She curls into herself pitifully, kneeling on the damp ground.

"That was foolish," I lecture her. She nods in response. "You could have died. As it was, I had to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation—"

"You what?" she croaks, clutching her chest.

"You inhaled water," I inform her, annoyed. She should be thanking me, but I suppose I will accept spiteful indignation.

She continues to cough, and I debate leaving but I really am very tired and there is no more work to be done. She pulls my cape around her tightly and I briefly wonder if I should worry about hypothermia. "I couldn't save him," she says, and she sounds halfway between shouting and tears.

"The child is okay," I inform her.

"I couldn't save his dad," she mourns, and I wonder how she could be so naively sentimental after years of growing up in Bludhaven and Gotham with vigilantes for parents.

"We cannot save everyone," I tell her. "You almost drowned for all your efforts."

She goes quiet and I have nothing more to say. I am reminded of the few times she came to the Manor before moving to Gotham and my father attempted to cure her of her fear of water. It was always interesting to me. Submersion in deep water never bothered me. Of course, I was conditioned from a young age not to have any sort of phobias, lucky for me. They seem a bother. I must admit, however, that it took no small amount of courage to not only face her fear, but to face it with such abandon that it almost killed her.

"Thanks for saving me," she says quietly.

"Tt. It is certainly not the last time that will happen, Grayson."

She studies me, looking annoyingly confused, before she says, "Maybe I'll return the favor, one of these days."

"Doubtful," I scoff.

Carrie Fisher, the daytime news anchor for GCC, traipses over to us, camera in tow. "Nightstar," she calls. "GCC wants your opinion on the—"

"Nightstar is unavailable for comment," I interrupt. Grayson simply shrinks into herself, unsure, but I will not tolerate the disrespect the media is showing the victims of this accident or us.

"Then, Robin," she attempts, "would you—"

"There are plenty of victims and rescue and emergency personnel on site. I suggest you speak to one of them and learn of their trying experiences instead of glorifying our actions."

She scowls at me, a look I return with a steady gaze, and she turns to the camera. "We're gonna cut that," she directs. She stalks of, looking for someone else to bother, and Nightstar visibly relaxes.

"Thanks," she mumbles, and she leans her forehead on her knees. After a few minutes, she attempts to light a starbolt, but a feeble pink spark flares in her palm and that ends it. I wonder how effective she is in combat while depowered.

Her father finds us, and he does a detailed examination and asks Proxy for her vitals. As though I did not make sure she was fine, anyway.

My father joins us, as well, and Nightstar hugs him, which is a breach of protocol.

Both Graysons leave and my father nods at me, indicating that we have a long night of investigating ahead of us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you wanted romanticized CPR. It's not a cute or romantic thing and I didn't want to make it that way. Actually, I don't think Damian would have thought much of it because resuscitating a victim of drowning would probably be tame compared to the things a member of the Batclan has seen.


	3. Demon's Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Effect" from Damian's point of view (requested by lunavener) 
> 
> Word Count: 1,586

"Please?" Mar'i says, and she's making herself look as pitiable as possible. She does look quite upset, but that does not matter. What she's asking should not be done, especially not by me.

"Absolutely not."

"I'll make it up to you," she offers.

I roll my eyes. "How on Earth would you do that? I have already said that there is nothing I need from you, Grayson."

"I don't know. I'll bake you something," she offers, grasping at straws. "You can have Alfred for a week."

"I do not want that infernal cat."

"C'mon, Dami," she pouts.

I glower at her, although the combination of the pitiful expression she wears and the term of endearment makes my stomach twist in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. "Don't call me that," I snap.

"Uncle Damian?" she tries sweetly, and that is much worse because now the twisting in my stomach is much more painful.

I shoot a fierce glare at her and I begin closing my door, but she puts her foot in the way and I am no match for her superior strength. If she were as effective in the field as is at grating on my nerves, she would easily be better than Cass. "Get Brown to go with you, dammit," I advise when she refuses to leave.

"She'll be there as herself," she sulks, and I sigh because if we are to continue this conversation the information will undoubtedly become more sensitive. I take her by the wrist and pull her grudgingly into my apartment.

Grayson is speaking about the service for everyone injured or otherwise damaged from the bridge collapsing. We played an instrumental part in the rescue operations, and as a result the city extended an open invitation to us. However, we are not celebrities and we do not do these sorts of things. Besides, appearing on camera becomes problematic, as that makes it easier for someone to potentially discover our secret identities. Grayson would not understand such things, because no one would suspect Mary Grayson of being an alien with solid green eyes and orange skin. For the rest of us, the masks are a flimsy cover by comparison.

"My father does not approve of you attending the service, anyway," I remind her. "Besides, it is probably not wise for Nightstar and Robin to appear together at such a public event."

"Why?" she asks, clearly confused.

"Because of the media-fabricated relationship projected onto them because of Carrie Fisher's love of vigilantes as an article of pop-culture," I explain, although it is disconcerting to think that such a thing has affected me while Grayson has apparently forgotten about it.

She narrows her eyes at me, looking bored. "Carrie Fisher?"

I sigh. "The news anchor I believe you refer to as 'the lady with the highlights and unreasonable shoes'."

"Oh," she says, the spark of recognition alight in her eyes. When she speaks again, she sounds exasperated. "Well, Damian, who really gives a crap about that? It's completely ridiculous, anyway. There's no way that the two of us would ever date."

My stomach twists again and I cross my arms to hide my discomfort. "I know that," I snap. "It is simply a bad idea to perpetuate the notion."

"I don't get why. We both know that it's stupid. It's not like that changes anything."

I blow a puff of air out the corner of my mouth. She does not realize how uncomfortable she is making me. "Whatever your feelings about the matter, it is not a good idea to attend tonight, especially if you feel that you are so emotionally affected by what happened that you cannot go without support."

She looks stricken, although I don't know why. "You know what, never mind," she says venomously, and she turns and stalks toward the door.

"Wait," I call, and she takes a few more steps but she does not exit the room. She spins, a whirl of hair and bright green eyes, and she looks at me expectantly as she touches her back to my door. "I did not mean to insinuate that you could not control yourself," I mutter awkwardly. "I only meant that it would not help civilians to see you have a breakdown. They look to us for stability, not sympathy."

She squints at me and I can tell that she is angry. "It's different for me. Batman's the silent avenger in the night. You all carry his image." I'm not sure why she is categorizing us into 'you' and 'me', but I let her continue without interruption. "You're all regular people who do amazing things." Now I see where she's going, and I clench my fingers against the heel of my hands.

"To get them to realize that," she continues, "you need to make yourself detached because you always need to prove that you're a step above them. I'm not like them. I have .'m above them and I need to prove that I can be like them."

Her hair is gently burning at the ends, and she certainly seems upset. It's… pretty. But it's pretty, I think, in the way thorns on a flower are pretty, or the way that intricate patterns and vibrate colors on an insect might signify that it is poisonous.

She drops her gaze from me and she says, "It's not just that. There are so many people I didn't save… That boy's dad…"

I lean heavily against my counter. I do not understand how she can possibly hold herself accountable for that, but I remind myself that perhaps, in my younger years, I would have done the same. "You're putting so much pressure on yourself."

She slides her back down the door until she's sitting. She looks very vulnerable, even as the flame from her hair throws shadows over her face. "I don't—I don't mean to. But I'm so different than the rest of you. You're all… bats. With the night and stuff. And I'm not. I get my powers from the sun, Damian. It's like a bad joke."

It never occurred to me how Grayson might easily be considered an outsider. I simply expected her to do what the rest of us did and, more often than not, she delivered. I am unsure whether or not she would find solace in the fact that I do not think she is so different. "You should go," I say instead of that.

"No, you were right," she says, defeated. "I'll just screw things up."

"Tt. I never said that. Do not cry. That would be a mistake. And if you attend, expect a certain amount of media attention. But perhaps your presence would be more welcome than that of… bats."

"I don't know." She rests her forehead against her knees glumly, curling into herself.

I approach her and I hold out my hand. "Get off the floor. It's pathetic."

"I—" she protests as I pull her to her feet.

"You should go," I tell her seriously. "I think it's a good idea. You were quite important in the rescue operation."

"I guess," she mumbles.

"Don't pressure yourself so much. This is something that Nightstar is remarkably capable of handling."

She's looking up at me, wide-eyed, and she says, "Um… Thanks, I guess." She brushes her fingers through her hair unsurely and she puts her hand on the door knob. "You don't need to go with me," she says before leaving.

"I know," I answer, and she furrows her brow at me, but leaves nonetheless.

When the time comes, I dress in my Robin uniform and the ceremony from afar. It is easy enough to observe—the banks of the river are lit by bright lights, and camera crews are recording and playing it back on screens around the area.

Nightstar holds up well. It is not until the older child of the man who died that I suspect she will have a problem, and while creating as little stir as possible, I swing over to where she is in the crowd on a jumpline and I drop down next to her.

She starts and hisses, "Where did you come from?"

"Been here," I tell her with a shrug.

"You've—what? For how long?"

"Since the beginning."

"Why didn't you let me know you were here?"

"You were doing fine on your own. Now quiet."

After the ceremony closes, Grayson becomes meek and allows me to answer most of the questions asked by journalists or news crews. We leave and settle on the roof of our apartment building.

"Are you satisfied?" I ask.

"I didn't think you would come," she says.

She sounds so grateful that all I can say it "Tt." She moves closer to me and my stomach flips because lately she's become fond of hugs. "Grayson, if you hug me I swear to god—"

Paying no attention to my protests, she does anyway, and she rests her head on my shoulder. I am unsure as to whether I should return the gesture or not, and I squeeze my eyes shut as my stomach flips again.

"That was really nice of you," she says, her voice soft. "Thanks."

I sigh and push her back by her shoulder because I can't take much more of the dizzy heat reaching through my blood. "Now that we're out, do you want to complete a patrol route?" I ask. We don't patrol together often and I think that I would quite like it.


	4. Demon's Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon's Date 
> 
> Prompt: "Modeling" written from Damian's point of view. 
> 
> Word Count: 4,701

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even doing these in the order that I got the requests anymore. Sometimes I can't control the things my brain does and when it does them.
> 
> Also this is not one of my most brilliant chapter titles but sometimes it's hard to think of a monosyllabic concrete noun that summarily captures the essence of each chapter. So deal.

It is very late. Or very early, I suppose. It all depends on point of view. The sun is beginning to rise over the Gotham skyline. On my way home, I will run into people coming back from jobs at the night shift and going to early morning jobs. Gotham is never asleep. However, the people awake at this hour will not be very interested in socialites or their sons, so I should not have to worry about my presence causing a stir as it sometimes does.

Grayson and I are changing out of our uniforms. I was using the Batman persona tonight. It won't be long until I use it every night. Grayson is chatting as he often is, his voice laden with weariness. I am not even half listening. Taking off the suit takes up most of my attention, and what part of me is not focused on that is counting down the minutes until I can finally rest in my very comfortable bed next to my very attractive girlfriend. I am so tired that thinking of Mar'i does not even stir the faint sense of guilt that it usually does around her father.

The Batsuit is much bulkier than the Nightwing costume, and there are many more mechanisms in place to ensure that it cannot be taken off by one who does not know how to disable the locks. Instead of leaving as I probably would, Grayson leans back against the locker full of various articles of his clothing and continues talking, waiting for me. It is a nice gesture, but an unnecessary one.

"…so I was thinking of taking Mar'i and Babs out together, because you know, they don't really get to see each other much, but I'm not sure what they'd both like. Maybe the new place on Canal, but I don't know if Mar'i would like it."

After carefully folding my uniform, I offer, "She did not mind it when we went there last week."

"You guys went there together?" he asks, curious.

I freeze, my eyes wide and my mouth agape. That was the single most idiotic thing I have ever said in my entire life.

"Wait," he mutters, sounding confused now. "When? I don't remember hearing about that."

It's far too late for me to think of an acceptable excuse or lie. "Ah…" There is no way for me to help myself out of this. Mar'i will be so angry. "I mean, she mentioned—"

"You went there with your new girlfriend last week, didn't you? That's why I brought it up." His voice is more suspicious now. It's over. He knows.

"Before you continue that thought I'd like to explain—"

"You know, a couple weeks ago I mentioned to Mar'i that she ought to start seeing somebody," he tells me, a hard edge in his voice. I scramble to do up the buttons on my shirt before this gets very bad. "She got really defensive. Way more defensive than I thought she'd get. I started thinking that maybe she was seeing someone me she didn't tell me about it, but I figured I shouldn't worry because you would be keeping an eye on her."

Grayson has never intentionally made me feel guilty before. I do not like it.

"I had myself convinced that you wouldn't let anybody take advantage of my daughter." His voice is almost a growl now. That is an accusation.

"Nobody is taking advantage of anyone," I snap. I meant to be calming or perhaps pleading, but the very idea that I would do that to anyone, let alone Mar'i, is irritating and offensive.

His eyes are sharp as he glares at me, "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Damian?" Surprisingly, his voice is soft. I think because he's hoping that he's wrong.

That makes this very hard. Nervously I twitch the collar of my shirt into place at the nape of my neck, then I stand with my back straight and my fists clenched. "Your suspicions are correct; I am in fact dating Mar'i."

He is very still for a moment before color rises to his cheeks and he clenches his jaw. "You were just out last week with a different girl," he points out. He is trying to be calm but his voice is shaking.

"That was Mar'i," I assure him. "I updated her hologram pendant to allow her to disguise herself if she wished."

This does not seem to comfort him as I intended. "Why the hell did you do that?" he demands, and for now he seems frozen in one spot but I am not sure how long that will last. "She isn't good enough for you to go out in public with?"

"No!" I choke. Grayson misinterprets that answer, because he darts toward me and I back out of his reach. "That is not why. Never that. It's because a public relationship with me is complicated immensely by the presence of reporters and—surely you understand, being my father's son comes with a certain amount of unwanted attention—"

"That's bullshit," he snarls. "And you know it."

Perhaps going to such extreme measures to hide our relationship was not quite necessary, but I am surprised that he is angry that I tried to shield Mar'i from the public eye. Granted, he would probably be as upset with any possible route I decided to take at the current moment.

While I am contemplating that, Grayson lunges at me and he grabs me by my shirt. I am taller than he is, but it would be a lie not to admit that a small part of me is intimidated.

"How long has this been going on?" he demands.

I brush his hands away from my shirt. "Approximately nine months. Since she returned from Tamaran."

"Jesus," he breathes. "Nine months." He certainly looks wounded, which makes my stomach twist unpleasantly. Before I can muster an apology, however, he narrows his eyes at me. "How long has she been living in your apartment?"

I wish he had not thought of that. "Ah…" I stammer, and I can feel heat rising to my cheeks.

"Un-fucking-believable," he snarls. He runs his hand through his hair, thoroughly upset.

I need to fix this. With Grayson so disapproving, Mar'i will become upset and that could very well be the end of our relationship. Of course I would like his approval on my own behalf and on his, but the knowledge that Mar'i will be deeply affected by her father's disapproval sends me into a panic.

"Grayson," I plead. "Dick. This is not a passing infatuation or a phase. I love her."

"Bullshit," he says immediately, and that cuts me. The breath is knocked from my lungs and the ragged breath I take in is like ice, but I remind myself that he is upset and that, given what evidence he has, he has no reason to believe me.

"I do," I insist. I was hoping to avoid making a complete ass out of myself, but it can't be helped. My face is even hotter now but I force myself to say, "With her, everything is different. Softer. More balanced." I swallow down what remains of my pride and I tell him what I told her once. "She woke me up."

"Don't," he says after a few moments of silence. "God, Damian, doesn't the fact that she's my daughter mean anything to you? Didn't it occur to you that she's off-limits?"

That would most certainly enrage Mar'i. I will not mention that he said that to her when I eventually recount this argument to her.

"You're my brother," he adds, putting heavy emphasis on the last word. The wounded tone has returned and it makes me very uncomfortable. I much prefer anger over this.

Yes, it occurred to me that she was off-limits. I was prepared to do nothing, in fact, when I realized I had developed feelings for her. But the night he got shot she kissed me and that very effectively changed my mind.

"Why her, Damian?" he asks, and it seems that he has moved entirely past anger now. He sounds heartbroken and I wish he would stop.

But I do have an answer for this, one that I never realized I had contemplated. "Why Starfire?" I return, and he looks stricken by my audacity to challenge him in such a way.

"That was completely different." His voice is soft now, but dangerous.

"A teammate," I press. "New to Earth. And you saved her. Were you not taking advantage of the feelings she may have been projecting onto you?"

"Shut up," he growls. "It wasn't like that."

"No? Then perhaps your attraction to her lay in her birth status, or maybe it was purely physical."

He lunges at me again but I'm ready now, and I catch his forearm as he tries to pin me against the lockers by my throat.

"You're angry because that is not true," I say confidently. "You are angry because I have degraded the light she brought to your life, the clarity with which she allowed you to see things around you, the profound effect she had on your personality simply by being herself and offering to share herself with you." He is not pushing me anymore and I make a mental note to delete any audio recordings from footage captured by the several security cameras around the cave at a later time.

"Does she love you?" he asks quietly, bowing his head.

I choke at that. For some reason it was much easier to speak for myself, even in such an outspoken way, than it is for me to share that. It somehow seems more personal. "She… yes." Under my breath I add, "For some reason."

"You tell her that you love her?" he presses, and I am beginning to wonder if he is simply attempting to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible.

"Often," I reply.

"Then you start acting like it, damn it," he growls, and he drops his arm, looking oddly defeated. I don't know what he means by that, though, and I furrow my brow at him. "No more fake girlfriends," he clarifies. "If you think you're in love then you should damn well be able to handle paparazzi. I don't want her to have to sneak around and pretend to be somebody else when she's with you. That's not how she should be treated."

Wordlessly, I nod. He has a point.

"If she ever comes to me in tears because of you, you'll be sorry," he warns me, and I don't know what to say to that. I would be sorry regardless of what Grayson intended to do.

He leaves after that without saying anything else to me and he is clearly very upset. The trip home feels longer than usual. My father has suggested that I move back into the Manor again. Perhaps I should, but I like being in the city.

When I arrive at my apartment, I contemplate waking Mar'i. She would be cross with me if she found out about our conversation from her father and not from me. But the reason she was not out tonight is because she has a job this morning.

I decide to let her sleep and perhaps speak to her about it when she wakes and I quietly crawl into bed next to her.

Annoyingly, I must have miscalculated how tired I was, because she is already gone when I wake up. She almost never manages not to wake me up when she leaves. It's luck that she didn't today, and not entirely good luck.

It seems that Grayson has given me an ultimatum: See Mar'i in public or else I assume he will convince her not to see me anymore. He knows as well as I do that he could not really stop her from doing something she wanted to do or make her do something she didn't, but it would put a considerable strain on our relationship and besides, I'd like his approval, too.

I'm not sure how to go about doing this. I don't enjoy parading girls around the way my father does, even if he only likes it because it's an admittedly excellent cover for the Batman persona. I am willing to do many things to protect my identity, but using women is not one of them, and that is what my father does, however harmless the intent. Perhaps I am overthinking this. Obviously I would not be using Mar'i. I really do want to be with her.

I cannot shake the discomfort about the idea, but a little discomfort is surely worth it. I make a few calls, reserve a place at an expensive restaurant, because it's showy—not the one Grayson mentioned which caused me to inadvertently admit to hiding a serious relationship with his daughter for several months—and I get dressed.

It's ridiculous, but I am nervous. The whole situation has me nervous. Mar'i will likely be upset that I did not wait for her to be with me to tell her father, and in fact we've spoken about how we would tell him together.

I ignore my anxiety, however, and hunt in Mar'i's e-mail account for the location of the studio where she is shooting today. She's not exactly given me permission to enter her e-mail this way, but the ethics are easy to ignore when all she has in here advertisements from stores and notifications from professors and conversations with Lian and Iris. And e-mails from her manager and photographer, a friend of Robert's mother, which is what I'm looking for.

Taking care to memorize the address, I close my laptop, shoo Mar'i's cat off my shoes, and I exit my apartment. I have to go downtown, just north of Chinatown.

The building is professional looking. In need of a power-wash, perhaps, but not unlike any of the office buildings around it. Once I enter it, there is a girl perhaps a few years older than me sitting at a wide expanse of a desk that makes her look tinier than she likely is.

"Hello," she says in a professional voice, smiling sweetly at me. "How can I help you?"

She doesn't seem to recognize me, which is usually a relief but currently does not help. "Yes," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets and clenching them. "I'm just looking for room 208," I tell her, reciting the number I read from Mar'i's e-mail.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I think you have the wrong room—there's a shoot going on there right now. You might be looking for room three-oh-eight; that's Mr. DiPaolo's meeting room, although I don't remember his mentioning any appointments…" She begins tapping manicured fingers across the sleek keyboard, looking at the monitor which is positioned to the side.

"That's not necessary," I interrupt, and I lift a hand and run it nervously through my hair. "You see, my girlfriend is at that shoot and I was hoping to surprise her."

"Oh," she intones, frowning. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not supposed to let anyone in to see any of the girls. You understand."

"Of course," I say quickly. I do understand; there are more than likely problems with people stalking a girl, pretending to be their boyfriend in order to corner them when they aren't expecting. Taking my answer as an admission of fault, the girl seems to think that I'm going to leave and she returns her attention to the thin stack of papers at the center of her desk. "Wait, no," I correct myself quickly, and she lifts her eyes slowly, becoming annoyed. "I'm not—ah—"

"Sir," she says, her tone scolding. "You seem perfectly nice. If you want to surprise your girlfriend, why don't you just wait for her in the lobby? All the girls know the regulations. She won't blame you."

"It would really be best if I—"

"If you don't leave, sir, I'll have to call security."

Tt. As though glorified mall cops could force me out of a building. "That won't be necessary," I assure her, my voice surly.

She's looking up at me, challenging, and she'll press whatever buzzer is beneath the surface of the desk unless I leave. I'm about to—it's not as though I cannot simply sneak in—and before I leave I do a quick sweep of the area. I notice everything all at once—where the entrance to the hallway is, the height of the ceiling, the security cameras posted strategically around this room (six).

"By the way, that equation is balanced incorrectly," I tell her as I lean back, preparing to leave.

Startled, the girl—Monica, according to the name at the top of the paper that's sticking out from a stack of typed, work-looking papers—glances down at her desk.

"Sorry," I apologize coolly. "I just noticed your chemistry homework there."

She's turned red, and I feel bad, vaguely, because I did not mean to embarrass her. I only noticed because I'm attempting to plan an easy way to sneak in.

"I assume you're upset that I've caught you doing homework while working. It was not my intent to cause you any trouble. My girlfriend is taking the same class as you at Gotham University." That's true, actually. "Don't feel bad for getting the wrong answer; it took her ages to work it out." That's not. Mar'i is well past proficient in most sciences. Taking it is really a formality for her.

Monica gathers the stack of papers in her hands and evens it out by tapping them horizontally against the desk. "Um, so who is your girlfriend, anyway?" she asks, probably just to be polite.

"Mary Grayson," I tell her. Then, because she's looking at me expectantly, I elaborate. "Dark hair, green eyes…"

"I don't know her, sorry. It's a big class."

"Yes, most at Gotham University are." I'm somewhat confident in my ability to turn this around, so I say, "Advanced chemistry? Something tells me clerical work is not your passion."

"It's not," she admits. "I'm trying to put myself through college on my own and I really need the money from this stupid job. I only work here because my uncle's one of the editors for the magazine." She sighs and adds, "Look, I see what you're trying to do. I still can't let you in. I'll lose this job."

"I doubt that," I mumble. Letting in Bruce Wayne's son would certainly not get her fired, but I do not want to go into that right now. "Are you good at chemistry?"

Monica looks baffled now, and she stammers, "Um, yeah. I mean, I think so. I haven't had much of a chance to actually—"

"You've heard of Wayne Enterprises?"

"Of course I have. I don't see what it—"

"The science department is in need of a secretary. I'm sure that with your credentials you'd get the job, and from there it would not be difficult to, well, climb through the ranks, if you truly are good at chemistry."

"Wha—How do you—?"

"Bruce Wayne owes me a favor," I tell her evasively. "E-mail a résumé to this address—" I take a pen and her chemistry homework from the bottom page of the stack of paper she'd evened out and I write the correct one on the back of it— "And mention you saw me."

"I—what's your name?"

"Just call me Malone in the e-mail."

"Malone," she repeats doubtfully. "You don't look very Italian, Mr. Malone."

I simply shrug and look at her expectantly.

"Ugh, fine," she sighs. "If this is really legit I guess I can't leave you out here." Monica looks down at the e-mail address I've scrawled on her paper once more and she presses a buzzer that opens the doors behind her.

"Thank you," I say politely, and I nod once in her direction.

"No problem, I guess. And tell your girlfriend I'll see her in class on Tuesday."

As I walk through the doors, I wonder if there actually is a secretarial position in need of filling in the science department at Wayne Enterprises, but if there isn't I'll simply add one. I suppose technically that wasn't name-dropping.

The room is expansive, but everyone is one corner of it because a variety of different equipment for lighting and such is taking up a great deal of space.

It's a bit ridiculous, really. There are seven or eight girls, Mar'i among them, dressed as an overly-sexualized group of wood nymphs, complete with faerie wings and odd makeup. I'm suddenly grateful for Monica's insistence that strange men are not allowed to roam the building in search of ambiguous girlfriends.

People in here notice me. Nobody asks why I'm here. Nobody cares. People make their way over to me and shake my hand, and they make small talk even though I'm sure it's distracting.

It's satisfying to see that Mar'i does not really care that I'm here. I'm sure she does not know yet that it's me, simply that someone of slight importance has entered the room. She shifts around a bit to try to get a glimpse of me, but I've been staying out of her line of vision.

The moment that she does realize that I am here is even more satisfying. Her jaw drops and her eyebrows shoot up and she does not even try to act like she is focusing on what she is doing. I give her a small smile, which only seems to confuse her more, before her attention is required elsewhere.

When they finally finish I approach her meaningfully.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, looking around nervously.

I'm quite aware that nearly every pair of eyes is trained on us, watching greedily for any sign of something interesting. "I am here to see you, of course," I confess loudly, and she looks confused and slightly horrified. Under different circumstances that would be a terrible reaction to such a statement, but now it makes me laugh. I slide my hand from her hip to the small of her back and I cup her throat, then slide my thumb up to her chin to make her tilt her head back so I can kiss her.

She's very hot, and I don't only mean that as a level of physical attractiveness. She clenches the material of my jacket in tight fists and she hangs on me as I kiss her, too surprised to do anything other than focus on not bursting into flame.

This was an excellent idea. I like it very much. I'm glad Grayson thought of it.

That thought effectively makes kissing her slightly awkward, so I release her chin and step back.

Mar'i simply gapes up at me, then she demands, "What in X'hal's name are you—?"

"Go change," I interrupt, and I slide my hand into her hair which is satisfyingly hot to the touch. "We'll go out for lunch."

"My dad—"

I drop my voice so that no one around us will be able to hear. "I'll explain later. Go on."

She changes quite quickly, and when she comes back to collect me she fundamentally drags me out of the room behind her. She's doing it because she's trying to duck back under the proverbial radar, but it's too late for that, anyway. There was a professional photographer in that room—I expect pictures of us kissing to be in tomorrow's paper.

"Slow down," I tell her, pulling my arm close to my side to tug her back.

"No, you hurry up," she snaps. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Tt." I lean my back against the wall and I pull her against me. I keep my tone light as I say, "It's perfectly fine. I spoke to your father."

"You what," she deadpans. She is most definitely not pleased.

"I did not really mean to," I tell her, and I lift my hand to touch her cheek before she decides to become justifiably angry. "I'm sorry that I talked to him without you but once the discussion began he was unwilling to wait any longer for answers."

"Okay, okay," she sighs, unhappy but thankfully forgiving. "I guess we're gonna have to deal with that. But what's all this?"

"Your father was unhappy with the use of the hologram necklace," I explain, and I drop my hand from her cheek to trace the chain of her necklace down to her pendant.

"Well, it's not as though it's his business," she scoffs, ignoring me.

I frown at her. It is absolutely not my intent to make her choose my side over her father's. "Try to see from his point of view. It looks as though I'm using you."

"No," she counters, "it looks as though you don't care how I look and you just want to be with me without people prying."

"That is how I intended it," I admit, very relieved that she never considered that I was using her. "However, if making this one change will make your father happy, I believe it is worth it."

She shifts against me uncomfortably and the temperature of her hair rises noticeably.

"Ri," I soothe, and I warp my arms around her and slide my fingers into her hair. "You said before that you can't date Batman. I suppose that what I'm asking now is if you'd like to date Damian Wayne." That is a much nicer way of putting it than 'your father is borderline blackmailing me into doing this', but this is a point that I have been meaning to discuss with her.

She looks down at the ground and mutters, "Of course I do, stupid." Then she raises her eyes to mine. "But you didn't ask me."

"I just did," I remind her, confused.

"No, you said you 'supposed' you'd ask me," she says, smiling, and she winds her arms around my neck. "That's not asking."

"Grayson," I growl.

"Just ask me," she urges, her voice low in her throat, and she tightens her arms so that I could kiss her simply by tilting my head if I chose. "Ask me to date you."

"Mar'i," I say, and I drop my hands to her hips and I pull her closer. "Will you date me?"

"I'm sorry," she giggles, "but I think you can do better."

I frown at her, very much annoyed, and I flip our positions so that she's pinned against the wall. "You're annoying," I growl, and I cannot stop myself from kissing her. "And brave," I add, and I kiss her again. "And passionate," I breathe, and if I do not stop kissing her I will have a problem very soon. "And so, so beautiful." I manage to limit myself to tucking her hair behind her ear and dropping my gaze to her mouth instead of kissing her again. "I could keep going but you have not yet eaten and I'm eager to get you home. Mar'i Grayson, I love you. Will you date me?"

"Yes, Damian," she sighs, and she kisses me so eagerly that our teeth touch. "X'hal, I love you," she murmurs.

"Glad to hear it," I say. "Now, I've made reservations for two and we need to stop in the garment district as you cannot go in those clothes."

"Wha—garment district? You don't need to buy me a dress, Damian," she protests as I take her hand and tug her into walking next to me.

"You have one with you, then?" I ask, knowing that she does not.

"No, but—"

"Then I am buying you a dress," I tell her. I could call Alfred to drive us, but hailing a cab means that more people will see us out together, which is what this is about. "Oh," I add offhandedly as I nod at one of the taxis coming up on us. "There is a girl in your chemistry class, Monica Aberdeen, that I'd like you to thank for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say about the length. Sorry not sorry? Also, I kind of gave Monica more dialogue than I intended but I kind of like her? I don't know why. It's now my headcanon that she becomes friends with Mar'i and she dates Colin Wilkes briefly and the four of them go out on double dates and it's cute. (I am the only person I know who develops headcanons about their own stories. I hope it's not a bad thing.)


End file.
